


I Don't Mind

by apliddell



Series: A Chemical Defect [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Hurt and comfort, Infidelity, M/M, Whump, first person POV, mid series three, sherlock POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-06
Updated: 2015-08-06
Packaged: 2018-04-13 08:16:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4514619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apliddell/pseuds/apliddell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John returns to 221B after his honeymoon to look after a sick Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Don't Mind

"You are not allowed to leave the country again," mumble (throat burns punitively anyway) round the thermometer John's stuck in my mouth, but he still understands me.

He snorts, "Shut up, please. You can scold me when-" beeping of the thermometer cuts him off, and he pulls it out and makes a low whistle at the read-out, "Thirty nine point five." John shakes his head at me. "Don't do things by halves, do you? Well, you win the big prize." Doctor patter. John and his bedside manner. Makes me smile, and John smiles back automatically, though he looks a little worried under it. Presses a cold hand to my cheek, my forehead, cards my sweaty hair with those soft, delicate (surgeon’s) fingers.

Shut my eyes. Feels marvellous.

Too good, "What's the big prize?"

Eyes are still shut but I feel a little huff of breath on my cheek (amusement from John, just shy of a laugh)(what's funny about that?)(can't think)(ergh). "Errr. Three days of bedrest," here he pauses to allow for complaining, but I don't have the energy. "And me hanging about, bossing you around, pouring fluids down your throat." Unintentionally suggestive. Feel him shift on the bed just slightly as the words leave his lips.

Open my eyes and lose the thread of my thoughts looking up into his. Dark blue (look bluer in his brown face)(brownest I’ve seen him since we met)(should’ve taken him someplace sunny before; it looks wonderful on him)(he hates sitting on beaches)(generally. Clearly exceptions can be made), kaleidescopic flecks of grey, gold (good lord, this is the worst sort of poetry!)(stop mooning and focus!)(can he see me mooning?)(should have seen it ages ago, then). "You're staying? Here?"

He pauses. Eagerness mingles with hesitation on his face, "You want me to? Yeah, suppose I'd better. Keep an eye on you. Tonight anyway. Maybe tomorrow." I nod avidly (hurts to speak)(saving it up in case I need it; I sound ridiculous whispering, muttering, cracking). John makes that little huff again (his warm breath on my face is glorious). Nearly a laugh. Affection, I think. Certainly not derision, "All right, then. Let me just check in." John gives me a little pat, then rises from his perch on the very edge of my bed and slips into the corridor, pulling the door shut behind him, but I can hear his footfall.

John paces, waiting for Mary to answer his call. His tread sounds off. He’s walking on his toes. Indicative of anxiety. Why should he be anxious? Ah it seems Mary has picked up because, here is John’s voice to answer my questions for me (sounds anxious), “Yeah, it’s me. He actually is in quite a bad way. Looks like strep. So I’m going to...yeah tonight at least. Probably tomorrow as well,” John pauses in his pacing and makes the little laugh he makes when he doesn’t want to row, but he knows he’s going to do it anyway. “Maybe you don’t need to call him that...well it isn’t fun-he isn’t a patient, Mary, he’s my best-yeah, that’s very funny. Really clever, thanks. Never had that one before,” starts up pacing again. Faster. Still on his toes. “Jesus, Mary, he’s ill! He’s got a temperature of fucking thirty-nine, and I just...sorry. Sorry...I’m sorry! I’m not shouting! Yeah, I just. He needs someone to look after him for a couple of days. Who else has he...well I wasn’t really asking…” John’s anxious tiptoe tread is going up the corridor now. Front door opens and shuts.

Unsurprising, I suppose. (I am a) Stupid thing to be on the outs with one’s brand new pregnant wife over. Reach out and shove my phone off the night table. Am not going to answer his apologetic text from the tube, and I don’t want the notification light blinking at me all night. Roll onto my side and pull the sweaty blankets over my head. I should feel guilty, I suppose (little tendril of guilt over my lack of guilt). Fall asleep trying to muster it.

Wake to the sound of someone worrying at my door handle. Clear my throat (ergh) and draw breath to send the intruder (Mrs Hudson) away, but there’s a clatter of dropped flatware, then John swearing under his breath (can’t make out the words, but I know the tone)(makes me smile). John and his rows with chip and pin machines and awkwardly situated door handles. Door bursts open and John enters with a tray, looking slightly frazzled.

He smiles when he sees me looking at him, “Oh good, you’re awake. Not that it means you might’ve helped with the door. That’s wishful thinking under the best of circumstances, eh?” Is he actually annoyed with me? No, still smiling; it’s only cheerful clucking, like he does to keep himself company sometimes, when I can’t be bothered to speak aloud. Cough (burns) piteously and widen my eyes to remind him of my state of convalescence. John laughs as he resumes his perch at the edge of my bed, “Yes, all right. I am here on purpose to look after you, so I suppose you’ve got an excuse this time.” He takes a glass of water off the tray and presses it into my hands.

Nothing has ever been so deliciously cold in the history of the universe. Gulp the water at once. Soothes and burns simultaneously as it slides down my throat. John is beaming when I set the empty glass back on the tray (so easily pleased sometimes)(even so, his expression makes me feel rather proud of myself).

“Oh, are you going to make this easy for me? Refreshing change.” Roll my eyes at him, and he laughs again (maybe will never speak again; things are going quite well with John filling in my portion of the conversation). “Let me get you a bit more, actually,” he holds up a bottle of extra-strength paracetamol. “I had to go out and get these. How is it that you don’t keep any in the flat?” John pops up and refills my glass in the bathroom as he speaks. “Anyway, it was probably good that I had the chance to-” he cuts himself off to find his words, then decides to leave the sentence unfinished. His smile is a little fixed when he rejoins me on the bed and tucks two capsules and the water glass into my hand. “Swallow, please.” Obey and resist any verbal or nonverbal remarks on his turn of phrase (stop it! He is not thinking what you’re thinking).  
He smiles and pats my back, “There now. You’ll feel better in a bit.” I lean into his hand on my back, and he drops it down behind me and braces it against the bed to prop me up. We sigh in unison (briefly feel John’s chest against my back). John laughs a little nervously and shifts, though he doesn’t withdraw his arm from where it’s pressed against me in support. “Going back to sleep?”

Shake my head (hurts), “Not if I can help it-” interrupt myself here with a coughing fit.

“Oh god, here,” John hands me the glass of water again, and I gulp it through my coughs. John takes the glass back when I’ve drained it. “More?” Shake my head. “Feeling better?” I nod, then shrug. My head hurts. “You were saying something, though. Here,” John bends and grabs my phone from the floor, then hands it to me. “Use this.” Clever John. Tap out a text, then hand him the phone before I’ve sent it. John reads it aloud (as if I don’t know what it says, bless him), “‘Been asleep for years.’” He smiles, “Like Rip Van Winkle. Welcome to the future, Sherlock.” Roll my eyes and take the phone from him, and he leans over my shoulder to watch me type the next text, though he reads it aloud anyway, “‘I don’t know what that means.’ Ha, nothing really. It’s just an old story about a man who sleeps through a revolution and wakes up with a great big beard.” John reads as I type this time (can feel his warm breath on my ear), “‘That...doesn’t...make...sense.’ No, I suppose it doesn’t, ha. It’s just a fairytale, don’t worry about it. Delete it. ‘I...don’t...like...fairytales.’ No,” he answers seriously, “Nor do I, actually. Bit, erm. Grim. They can be.”

Roll my eyes, “Don’t pun at me, John.” It hurts, but I don’t cough this time. Progress.

“That was only about forty percent an intentional pun. I only noticed it when it was already on its way out.”

“Even so.”

John laughs and shifts a bit to lean back into a more comfortable position. When I lean back too, he raises his arm and lays it across the headboard. His fingers brush the back of my neck, and I go very still. “Sherlock,” John turns to look at me. “I don’t think I thanked you properly for everything you did for me. With the, ah,” he clears his throat, “With the wedding.”

The wedding. I don’t want to talk about the wedding. “It was my pleasure.”

He shakes his head earnestly, “You went above and beyond, really. But you always do. Whenever something needs doing, you do the hell out of it, ha.”

Please don’t make me do this, John, “Well. You don’t know anything about serviettes and the different shades of purple. Someone had to step in.”

“Just shut up a moment” John murmurs, “and let me compliment you.” I do shut up. My throat is burning again. “Serves you right to sit there and listen, after that speech.”

There’s a warmth diffusing through me, unrelated to my feverishness. In my belly, in my cheeks, in my ears. Hot prickles on the back of my neck each time John’s fingertips brush my naked skin. I shiver. John drops his arm down around my shoulders and rubs my arm. “All right?” I nod, but he pulls my blanket up, flaps it smooth, and wraps it round my shoulders anyway. “Better?”

I nod, “Thank you.”

John replaces his arm around my shoulders and strokes my upper arm, “You’re welcome.” He considers for a bit, then squeezes me, “Is this okay?”

Lean into him, “I’m not afraid of your arm, John.”

John laughs warmly, then goes serious again at once, “You’re so clever that. Erm. I think I expect you to always know everything.” Keep silent. Clearly that is not the end of a thought. “I keep thinking I’m being clear and expecting you to read my mind and fill in what I don't say out loud. But. You can’t, can you? Not always, anyway.”

Wait for him to continue, but he doesn’t, “You’re full of surprises.”

John’s face is rather rueful under his laughter this time, “I haven't meant to be unfair, but I think I have been. I'm sorry." He pauses, squeezes me again (will I be able to save this in my mind palace? This gentle affection. John's arm around me, pressing me to him)(perhaps I'd better not), "You didn’t know I would forgive you. For, erm. Leaving. And you didn’t know that you’re my best friend.”

Shame stings behind my eyes. Blink it away. Avert my face, “You deserve better.”

John tugs at my sleeve, “Actually you pointed out in your speech the other day that we’re sort of a perfect fit. Sherlock,” he pauses and waits until I meet his eye to finish his sentence, “I never knew you felt that way.”

My failing. I should have told him a hundred thousand times by now, “I do.”

“Maybe I should have known,” John lowers his voice and draws me closer still with the arm round my shoulders. “You did tell me. Before. Once at least.”

“Did I?” My heart is going so fast. Can he feel it? No, as he says, we are neither of us omniscient. But it’s everywhere. My skin, my hair, my eyes, my mouth, my hands. I am all heartbeat. It’s what he does to me.

“‘The two of us against the rest of the world,’” John strokes the back of my neck and guides my head gently toward his until we’re nose to nose, “That is what you meant, isn’t it?”

He waits there, his breath on my lips, his nose brushing mine, until I answer, “Yes, John.”

John eases the edge of his hand under my chin and raises it slightly, cups my jaw, dances his fingers over my telltale pulse at my throat, “I’m sorry, Sherlock,” he whispers. “I’m such an idiot.” And he kisses me.


End file.
